


Whispers of my Heart

by blueabsinthe



Series: Hide the Night [8]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M, Memories, New York Rangers, Pre-Slash, Tampa Bay Lightning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-19
Updated: 2012-03-19
Packaged: 2017-11-18 12:14:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/560960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueabsinthe/pseuds/blueabsinthe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stay with me forever ...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whispers of my Heart

**Author's Note:**

> Before, and after the Rangers games versus the Islanders and the Buffalo Sabres. (02/24/2012-02/25/2012).

Brad arrives with his parents at Athol Murray College of Notre Dame on a quiet, Fall day. He remembers the bright red and yellow of the leaves on the trees. The way some of the leaves get caught on his hockey bag, and sticks as his parents direct him towards the office of admissions.

To say he was overwhelmed would be an understatement. Athol Murray's campus was larger than he imagined. He felt small, insignificant, even. Brad adjusted his bag on his shoulder, and half-listened as his parents raved about how he was in great hands here. The hockey program was the best around, and oh, he was so lucky, because he was going to be one of the youngest players on the squad. 

Brad took all this in, and smiled nervously as he met with the President of the school. He talks too fast for Brad to keep up. By the end of the President's overview, Brad is dizzy with all the new information swimming in his mind. 

His parents urge him to get settled in to his dorm room while they finish up with some last minute paperwork. He is all but shoved out of the room, a map of Athol Murray's campus clutched tightly in his hand, which he grips like a lifeline. 

He sees the school's large red crest on the wall as he leaves the office. 

_Luctor et Emergo_ is written in Latin on the shield. It makes Brad slightly uneasy. Here he was, an adolescent boy from Murray Harbour, Prince Edward Island, with a burning desire to play hockey. But that was it. 

He never felt so out of place.

Brad stumbles slightly on his feet as he leaves the Administration Building, his hockey bag bumping against his hip and upper thigh as he tries to regain his footing. He glances at the map, and then pulls out the sheet of paper that tells him where his dormitory is. 

As he makes his way across the campus, he takes in the brick buildings, and leafy trees. The air smells like Fall: crisp, new, airy. The sun kisses his cheeks, and hits his baseball cap as he treks past the numerous dormitories. A few girls he passes by stop briefly to size him up. He offers them a coy smile, and they giggle before they hurry on their way. 

Brad finds his dormitory and makes his way towards his room. He double checks the room number, to the sheet of paper, before he inserts his key and opens the door slowly.

He finds his roommate standing by a bed. He's tall, broad shouldered, but kind of lanky. His back is to Brad, and Brad watches transfixed for a moment as he watches the way the boy's back muscles ripple in his white cotton polo shirt. He sees the boy lean a hockey stick against the side of his bed, before he turns to where Brad is standing.

The boy grins, and wipes his hands on his immaculately pressed dark washed jeans, before he makes his way across the floor. Brad can see the shy, but confident grin the boy offers him as he holds out his hand.

"You must be my roommate," the boy says, a slight tinge of an accent colouring his voice.

"Um," Brad starts, taking the boy's hand, "yeah."

The boy grins. "Oh, good, you're in the hockey program. Thank god! I'll actually have something to talk to you about." He gestures to the bed he has his hockey stick leaning against. "I took this bed. Hope it's all right."

"Yeah, s'okay," Brad says, before he unloads his bag on the mattress. 

"So …" the boy continues, running a hand through his hair, "what's your name? Where you from?"

"Murray Harbour. It's in Prince Edward Island. And, it's Bradley … but everyone calls me Brad."

"Well, 'everyone calls me Brad', I'm from L'Île-Bizard. It's an island northwest of the Island of Montreal."

He hops onto Brad's bed and watches as Brad unzips his bag. "You must be the other young prospect."

Brad nods. "I didn't catch your name." 

"Vincent." He nudges Brad's toe with his own. "But, you can call me Vince, k?"

"Okay."

-x-

Brad is waiting to board their chartered bus to Uniondale when he hears his name. The game against the Islanders proves to be an easy matchup, but over the years, he has learned that no game, or team is an easy one. 

He is staring off into the distance, watching as their luggage is loaded, and Torts makes check marks on his clipboard. And, just like that, he feels as a warm hand is placed on his shoulder. 

Brad turns his head, and sees Hank smiling down at him. "Hm?" he asks, half-reluctantly forgetting about his adolescent days, and Vince. 

"Let's board."

Hank slips past Brad then, without looking back. Brad feels as a breeze tickles his cheek, and mentally scolds himself when he realizes he has been staring at Hank's pants, watching the way they hug his ass. 

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid, Brad thinks. 

He makes his way up onto the bus, forgetting about Vince, and Hank, and his stupid pants that were made for him. He realizes the only available seat is next to Hank near the rear of the bus. 

They hit the road soon after, and Brad soon realizes he is fighting to keep his eyes open. He jolts a bit when he feels Hank's hand curl around his. 

"Go to sleep," Hank murmurs.

Brad feels a shiver run down his spine as Hank's breath tickles his ear. He knows Hank is keeping his voice down out of courtesy to their sleeping teammates. 

"Can't sleep," Brad returns, stifling a yawn.

Hank chuckles. It warms Brad's system, and he half-turns his head on his pillow to look at him. He is about to say something to Hank, before he realizes Hank is leaning in swiftly, and pressing a kiss to his forehead. Brad can feel his pulse - his stupid, stupid pulse - as it races. Can smell Hank's cologne, and soap. 

Hank's breathing is a little off, but his lips are soft, and warm as they slide from his forehead, before they brush over Brad's eyelids. And, really, this should be more awkward than it is, but it's actually quite … comforting.

Brad shifts closer to Hank, and presses his face into the curve of Hank's neck, breath steady, as he listens to the little hitch in Hank's voice at his movement. He doesn't even protest when Hank pulls the blanket up over his shoulders, and presses his lips to his hair. It's chaste, and subtle, but it still causes warmth to spill through his veins.

" _Jag tror att jag älskar dig_ ," Hank says. His voice is thick, and seems to come from all directions; like he's speaking to Brad through a thick fog.

"You said that to me backstage," Brad notes, voice slow as he fights with falling asleep. 

"I did," Hank agrees.

"It's Swedish," Brad mumbles, placing a hand on Hank's chest. "What does it mean?"

Hank covers Brad's hand with his own, running his thumb over the pulse in Brad's wrist, before he brings Brad's wrist up to his lips, brushing his lips over the thin skin.

"Brad, I …" Hank swallows heavily, not sure if it was appropriate now. He glanced down briefly, watching as Brad's thick eyelashes fluttered as he fought to stay conscious. Would he even remember this tomorrow morning? 

" _Le cœur a ses raisons_ ," Brad mutters, breath tickling the hollow of Hank's throat.

Hank places a hand on the side of Brad's jawline, runs his finger over the curve. His fingers catch on the stubble, but he doesn't care. 

" _Le cœur a ses raisons_ ," Brad murmurs again. "My name's Bradley, but everyone calls me Brad … what's yours?" 

"Shh," Hank whispers, and doesn't resist when Brad interlaces their fingers. "Go to sleep, Brad."

"Can't sleep …" Brad shifts his head, his lips brushing against Hank's skin. "What does it mean?"

"What does what mean?"

"What did you say to me backstage?" 

Hank feels his chest tighten as Brad's hair tickles his nose. "It …" He sighs, and yawns. "It's nothing. It's not important."

"Wouldn't have said it if it means nothing," Brad says, voice thick with sleep. "You wanna know what ' _le cœur a ses raisons_ ' means?"

Hank feels his body as it stiffens. "Sleep, Brad."

"The heart has its reasons," Brad mumbles. " _Que la raison ne connaît pas_ ," he continues.

"Sleep, Brad." Hank presses a kiss to Brad's hair, and inhales deeply. " _Där satt en liten fågel i päronaträ, å sjongde så många vackra viser_ ," he murmurs, listening to Brad's breathing as it starts to hit a steady rhythm. 

Hank glances down after he's done singing, and can't help but smile when he realizes Brad has fallen asleep. 

He lets his eyes flit to the window, watching as the city flits by him. Hank slides his eyes back to Brad. " _Jag tror att jag älskar dig_ ," Hank whispers into Brad's hair. 

No response. 

"I think I love you," he chokes out, finally. 

When Brad wakes up they are in Long Island. He realizes this is the most rested he has been in a long while.

His eyes meet Hank's as he collects his luggage. _Thank you_ , he wills his eyes to say.

When they arrive in Buffalo, Brad opens his hotel room door, and finds Hank standing there. 

"You're welcome," Hank whispers, as he steps into Brad's room.

Brad goes willingly into Hank's arms. He falls asleep with his head pressed against Hank's chest. 

" _Stanna hos mig för alltid_ ," he hears Hank whisper in the dark.

**Author's Note:**

> When Hank sings on the bus to Brad he's singing a Swedish lullaby. Here's the full lullaby:
> 
> Där satt en liten fågel i päronaträ,  
> å sjongde så många vackra viser  
> Om inte mina onger e snäller å tir,  
> ja då får dom smaka på riset  
> Ack du lille fågel sjong inte så,  
> för mina små ongar dom ä snälla ändå,  
> å dom får inte smaka på riset
> 
> Translation (roughly translated):
> 
> A little bird sat in the pear-tree,  
> and sang so many beautiful songs  
> \- If my children aren’t nice  
> then they will taste the twigs (spanking)  
> Oh you little bird don’t sing that song  
> cause my little children are so nice still (without hearing that song)  
> and they will not taste the twigs
> 
> → _Stanna hos mig för alltid_ \- Stay with me forever


End file.
